


Through Your Victory I Shall Win The Light

by Anarfea, Theirwholebohemiansoul (Ineedthatcloak)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Love, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Fuck Or Die, Incest, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Reconciliation, Rimming, Self-Harm, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sibling Incest, Something Made Them Do It, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-11-04 04:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17891333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ineedthatcloak/pseuds/Theirwholebohemiansoul
Summary: At Sherrinford, Eurus experiments with Sherlock’s concept of sexual consent by forcing him to choose between having sex with John, who Sherlock wants and is in love with but who doesn’t reciprocate, and Mycroft, who has had long-repressed feelings of desire for Sherlock which Sherlock doesn’t reciprocate. Sherlock choses Mycroft.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To My Brother 
> 
> Give me your hand, my brother, search my face;  
> Look in these eyes lest I should think of shame;  
> For we have made an end of all things base.  
> We are returning by the road we came.
> 
> Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead,  
> And I am in the field where men must fight.  
> But in the gloom I see your laurell’d head  
> And through your victory I shall win the light.
> 
> \--Siegfried Sassoon, _The Old Huntsman and Other Poems_

John and Sherlock are coping with this madness by pretending to be soldiers. This is a strategy Mycroft has rejected. He is no soldier. He’s no longer even a field agent. He’s an aggregator of intelligence, a clearinghouse of information. This is not his wheelhouse. 

They’ve returned to Eurus’s cell, through the rear door this time. The perspective changes everything. There’s no glass separating them from the observation area of course, not that it matters. Those doors are locked. Sherlock steps into the cell first, John on his heels. Mycroft trails behind. Never in his life has he felt so totally out of control. He already failed once. Frozen when Sherlock asked him to kill Governor Aggarwal. Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to kill. Sherlock had been surprised, and perhaps disappointed. Mycroft understands. His brother thinks he’s a hypocrite--he can order men to their deaths, why couldn’t he pull the trigger to save a life? But Mycroft calculates casualties from behind a desk. He was not prepared for tears, for pleas for death, for blood spatter. And he hadn’t wanted to play Eurus’s game, to perform for her amusement.

But he has been playing, now. Analyzing, deducing. Making himself useful to Sherlock. It won’t help. There’s only one way this can end. Eurus is setting Sherlock up for a choice--John or Mycroft. Mycroft has no illusions that he will be the one chosen. He only hopes death will come quickly.

A television screen has been mounted on the back wall behind the observation area. Eurus’s smiling face appears. “Hello, Sherlock. It was so interesting watching you lose the last game. All those little complicated emotions. But you still have another chance to win. It’s time for our final experiment.”

Mycroft swallows. He’s strangling, even though he loosened the top button of his shirt under his tie.

“What do you want now, Eurus?” Sherlock clenches his fists. His knuckles are bloody.

“Now,” says Eurus, “We apply some context. Sherlock loves John Watson. Sherlock has never had sex, but he wants to have sex with John Watson. And John loves Sherlock, but does not desire sex with him because Sherlock is a ‘man’ and John will only have sex with ‘women’.”

Mycroft’s breath catches. He knows it’s true. And he should have seen it coming, after Eurus forced the confessions out of Sherlock and Molly, which revealed her to be far crueler, with a keener understanding of human nature, than Mycroft had suspected. She’s evolved from the child who can’t tell the difference between laughing and screaming. She knows which one is pain now, and she wants to make Sherlock feel it, to strip him completely bare, flay him open and expose his beating heart.

“‘Women’ and ‘Men’ are arbitrary categories designed to regulate social behavior. Gender isn’t really real. Sex isn’t really binary. Genitals are meat. Meat that swells with blood when you touch it. But the kind of meat you have is a criteria which determines whether or not some people will rub their meat against yours. And I’m sorry Sherlock, but as far as John Watson is concerned, you have the wrong kind.”

Sweat trickles down the back of Mycroft’s collar. This is still going to be a choice, only--

“On the other hand, let us consider Mycroft. Mycroft loves Sherlock. Sherlock loves Mycroft. Sherlock has never thought of Mycroft in a sexual manner, because Mycroft is his ‘brother’. While this category has a genetic basis, the taboo against incest is social. Despite the taboo, Mycroft has been wanting to have sex with Sherlock since Sherlock was fifteen.”

He could sink into the floor. His whole adult life has revolved around keeping this secret. He never wanted to burden Sherlock with this knowledge, to frighten or disgust him, to plant doubt in his mind about the nature of his love for Sherlock, of their relationship. And now Sherlock knows. 

“He has not made his desire known to Sherlock, because in addition to the taboo, social convention states that Mycroft’s greater age and superior social standing, combined with his having been Sherlock’s primary childhood caretaker, put him in a position of power over Sherlock which negates Sherlock’s ability to consent. Mycroft in fact likes having power and control over Sherlock, but he has arbitrary scruples about what kind of power it is appropriate for him to exert. Still, he is sexually aroused by power and control, especially over those he loves. Sherlock knows all of this. He has, however, repressed this knowledge because he is emotionally incapable of processing it.”

He doesn’t dare look at Sherlock. He can’t bear to see Sherlock’s querying eyes turned on him, for fear Sherlock will see the shame in his own. He stares straight ahead, face blank. He cannot let his emotions show. There is a possibility, however small, that Sherlock might believe this is a lie, something Eurus has invented to drive a wedge between them. Mycroft will certainly claim as much, if they ever get out of here.

“Now that you have the context, it’s time to make a decision. Your hands started shaking when I told you about the nurse. Consent, or rather the lack of it, concerns you. So, which will you chose? John or Mycroft? The man you desire, who does not desire you? Or the man who desires you, who you do not desire?”

“Eurus--” Mycroft stammers. “You can’t. This is inhuman.”

“Oh, but I can.”

“What if I refuse?” asks Sherlock. “You’ll kill me? All of us?”

For a split second, Mycroft thinks that would be preferable, but no. Sherlock cannot die. That is out of the question.

“If you refuse, I shall throw both Mycroft and John in with the general population. I suspect that they will be raped, murdered, and eaten.” She cocks her head to the side. “Perhaps not in that order.”

“Christ.” John runs his fingers through his hair.

Sherlock closes his eyes, fingertips pressed to his temples. “What counts, Eurus? What is your definition of ‘sex’?”

“Well, now there’s an interesting question. What’s yours, Sherlock? That’s one of the things I should very much like to know.”

Sherlock opens his eyes. “One might define it as going through the sexual response cycle. Excitement. Plateau. Orgasm. Resolution. Though of course if one party doesn’t complete the cycle most people wouldn’t say they haven’t had sex.”

Eurus watches, a slight smile curving her lips.

Mycroft knows that smile is dangerous. Sherlock has given the broadest, vaguest definition. She wants precision. 

“That should still be the goal, though,” Sherlock continues. “If not orgasm, pleasure. Stimulation of the genitals for the purpose of eliciting sexual response.”

“Come now, Sherlock. You know that’s not the dictionary’s definition. Or a layman’s. Thousands of years of defining virginity and the loss thereof have determined sex is a penetrative act. Intercourse.”

Sherlock stiffens. “Is that what you require?”

“Choose whom you will engage in intercourse. John or Mycroft.”

“You don’t have to do this, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s throat is dry, but he finds the words. “I know I speak for John as well when I say we are prepared to face the consequences if you decline.”

John nods, hands balling into fists at his sides.

“That is also a choice,” says Eurus. “But you were squeamish about the nurse. I assure you John and Mycroft’s fates will be similar. Mycroft, I think, will submit, perhaps attempting to ingratiate himself by becoming someone’s bitch.” She smirks. “John will fight and lose and will be beaten to death. Oh, and I forgot to mention. You’ll have to watch.”

“Nevertheless--” begins Mycroft.

“Don’t be absurd,” snaps Sherlock. “I’ve already told you--sex doesn’t alarm me. It’s certainly not worth dying over. What else, Eurus? Do you require that I--”

Her smile widens. “Ejaculate? I suppose that will be dependent on your partner’s performance as well as your own, so, no. Though I do expect a good-faith effort.”

“No. I meant…. Virginity. Are you expecting that I will… lose my….”

Eurus giggles. “You haven’t got a maidenhead, Sherlock. You can give or receive, your choice.” She says it with a little nod, as though she is being somehow benevolent.

Mycroft is transfixed in horror. Sherlock means to see this through. To play the game, even though there’s no assurance that Eurus won’t simply kill them anyway. This will forever change Sherlock’s relationship with John. John’s reaction to Sherlock’s return and Mary’s death show that he is not a forgiving man. He will blame Sherlock for this. Eurus is, of course, the real culprit, but Sherlock’s feelings for John are the pressure point which she’s exploiting. John will blame Sherlock for his love, for not being the machine he’s built Sherlock into in his mind.

“Can I have a few moments to… confer with them?”

“You may not. This is your choice, Sherlock. Yours alone.”

“Then give me time to decide.”

“One minute, Sherlock. And then you have to choose.”

Mycroft counts the seconds down.

Sherlock paces, tugging at his hair.

John stands at parade rest, tension in the line of his jaw.

Eurus drums her fingers.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock blurts. As though he’s just solved a case. As though it’s a revelation. “I choose Mycroft.” He says it softer the second time, but his voice is firm.

Mycroft’s knees buckle. He staggers, putting out a hand against the cell’s concrete wall to catch himself. His heart pounds in his ears.

When he turns around, he sees John staring open-mouthed at Sherlock, who is staring at Eurus, whose flat expression betrays nothing.

“And what role will you take?” asks Eurus.

Mycroft tenses. He cannot top Sherlock. He won’t be able to push past his fear of hurting his brother. He won’t be able to perform. Eurus will kill them.

“I will…” Sherlock licks his lips. “I will….” He turns away from Eurus and faces Mycroft. “I will penetrate you.” He says it softly. Almost with tenderness. It is all Mycroft can do not to retch, not to vomit on Sherlock’s shoes. He swallows his bile, forces himself to nod.

“This is fascinating, Sherlock. Your partner’s desire matters more to you than your own.”

Mycroft feels nothing akin to desire. His face burns with shame so hot he will immolate and die. Sherlock _knows_. Is he punishing Mycroft for past transgressions? Does he think Mycroft, on some level, wants this? Or is he just trying to spare John?

John, who manages to pick his jaw off the floor long enough to say, “Sherlock? Are you sure?”

“The choice is made,” says Eurus. “No reneging.”

“I’m sure.”

Sherlock has chosen, and Mycroft will bear this. He must. He straightens against the wall, pushing back the forelock that has fallen into his eyes. He drags his hands down his face, then lets them fall to his sides, squaring his shoulders. Soldiers.


	2. Chapter 2

Eurus has put forth her terms, so all that remains is to do this quickly. Gently, if at all possible. Sherlock is not practiced, but he is far from naive. “You’ve planned this far enough in advance to provide adequate supplies.” It is not a question, but he fights to sound as if he isn’t expecting to be denied lubrication; he is certain his voice betrays him.

She smiles in response. That same slight smile that has let him know he wouldn’t be able to fellate either of them, preferably John, to fulfill her requirement. It would have been no less real, no less sexual, but likely more manageable after the fact—if only due to the same cultural preconceptions that made Eurus deny it in the first place. John could move on from that; John would categorise receiving oral sex as something more akin to an unwanted gift than an invasion of self. Sherlock finds it ironic that something that would mean even more to him (it’s been a staple of his fantasies for years now) would mean even less to John, but there’s a bitter truth in that.

“Oh, Sherlock. That would fall into the category of ‘option’, not ‘necessity’. And I have given you plenty of those already. Make do with what you have.” She adds, “I did,” in a far more serious tone.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees John shift awkwardly and remove something from his pocket. It’s a condom. “If… I have one if you want it.”

Eurus laughs. “Ooooh, was that for me? How thoughtful!”

Sherlock ignores her. He will do his best to continue to ignore her from this point on. To ignore everyone except Mycroft. He includes himself in that list. But first, before he prepares to narrow his focus, John’s offering might prove useful. “Is it lubricated?” It wouldn’t do much, whatever ‘for her pleasure’ variety John kept on his person, but anything serves to reduce the friction.

John shakes his head.

Mycroft speaks, his voice clipped, but resolved. “Then I’d prefer nothing. Less… interference.”

All right then. Soothing and efficient. Mycroft is standing with shoulders squared, ready to do what must be done. Sherlock leans in close to ask him if there is anything else he might prefer, but his brother only turns away, discards his suit jacket, and begins to remove his belt, shoes and trousers. His shirt and waistcoat provide him with the smallest amount of covering, and he tugs down on the shirt to gain a few meager centimetres more, places his removed clothing alongside the wall, then situates himself on all fours facing the video screen. Sherlock is uncertain if the move was designed to have less of his body exposed or to preempt Eurus’s probable request for a view of both their faces. In any case, he decides letting Mycroft position himself however he sees fit is appropriate.

Sherlock slides behind him, then removes his own jacket to place it alongside Mycroft’s so they nearly touch. He hesitates and leans in once more before undoing his zip; he is close enough to Mycroft’s neck for his hair to brush against his brother’s cheek. Eurus would have a difficult time ascertaining what he is about to say, but they are both aware she doesn’t need to read lips to know. “I’m sorry. I will do what I can.” He kisses him gently beneath his ear.

The flinch is expected. What other reaction could he possibly have, doing this here, like this? Sherlock wants to talk more. To let him know that Eurus was right. He knew. He always knew, even if he didn’t exactly understand. And it didn’t make him angry, or hurt, or make him love Mycroft less. He couldn't say those things. Not now. Maybe not ever. But he can make this as pleasant as possible under the circumstances. He can take care of Mycroft. He runs his hand beneath the bottom edge of the shirt, then places his other hand opposite and spreads him apart to place a series of delicate kisses and licks against the sensitive skin of his entrance. Mycroft shifts away, but Sherlock draws him closer. Mycroft needs to know, to feel, that Sherlock can accept this new knowledge, of years of interest in him, without malice. Mycroft sounds his protest, first as a sharp sob, then in a stronger voice he somehow finds, a firm request that he--

“Stop. Please. Please stop.”

But Sherlock will not risk hurting him. This is what needs to happen, after all.

The act holds no erotic charge for Sherlock, yet, somehow, it needs to. Putting aside the emotions involved, which he believes he can accomplish for as long as it will take to complete this final task—far better than John or Mycroft could were their positions reversed—there is the far greater concern of anatomical logistics. If Sherlock can’t find some method of accessing lust, he will have failed them all and there’s no telling what Eurus would do armed with this second failure. It is his body to control, mind over matter, but there is no way he can think himself into a serviceable erection. Fantasies have never worked well for Sherlock; they are either too fleeting as his mind jumps from image to image, or too detailed as he hyper-focuses on whatever his mind has conjured up and scrutinises it for accuracy. Of course, it all comes to increasing blood flow, which can be done any number of ways— adrenaline reactions are nearly identical to sexual arousal on a purely anatomical level— but Sherlock’s goal is to remain in control of the situation. If he disconnects himself too much or succumbs to panic, he cannot ensure Mycroft’s well-being. A physical reaction from Mycroft might help, even with no trace of previous erotic connection on his own part, to form, at the very least, a mirror neuron response. If he can make Mycroft sufficiently aroused, he has a chance at responding in kind. 

He reaches for Mycroft’s penis. It isn’t particularly hard, but it is warm, and Sherlock is confident he can elicit a reaction if he is steady, consistent, perhaps even… relentless… in his approach. His performance doesn’t need to meet any particular quality standard. Eurus merely requires a good-faith effort, and penetration. The rest doesn’t matter… though his confidence that he can, and will, complete the task is growing as he gently rubs his thumb against the outer edge of Mycroft’s foreskin. There will be natural lubrication there at least, and though far from a thorough distraction, it might be enough. 

Mycroft is still resistant, and again Sherlock seeks to communicate his concern with as much tenderness as is possible, moving his body in closer against him, pushing his face deeper so he can remove his left hand and run it soothingly down Mycroft’s side. When he reaches the area low on Mycroft’s stomach, just along the edge of his hip bone, Mycroft shakes the tiniest bit. It would be imperceptible to anyone else. Sherlock runs his fingers softly along the protruding bone, and moves his right hand along the length of him as Mycroft slumps slightly in response. This could work. Feeling Mycroft’s muscles loosen as he cedes his control is enough to have the opposite effect on Sherlock. His own body is tensing, and.… There. The indication that this could actually work is all he needs. He slowly works the tip of his tongue inside. 

There are garbled noises at the edges of his senses he can just make out—one of arousal followed by one of protest. He knows on some level that the first is likely Eurus, the second, Mycroft, but he shuts himself off from all such distractions, as well as the comfort of letting his mind simply drift elsewhere, to focus only on keeping the movements with his tongue steady as he begins to stroke himself in preparation. Mycroft tastes of copper and sweat, with a bitterness which is persistent at first, but it isn’t long before the intensity fades as Sherlock pushes his tongue in deeper. The rough external texture gives way to a smoothness which shouldn’t have been surprising, but still catches him off guard. Sherlock works past the resistance of clenching muscles until anything resembling words are gone, replaced by grunts and breath.

He runs his hands up Mycroft’s thighs, grabs his hips to steady them and considers using his fingers to gauge if he can handle intercourse without pain. That might rob him of precious moisture, though. He closes his eyes and collects himself as best he can before raising his body up to align himself properly. He grips his penis tightly at the base in hopes of successfully managing his blood flow and begins to push inside. 

It is somewhat easier than he had anticipated. Mycroft is very tight, of course, but also very warm, and the feeling of Mycroft’s body enveloping him is unexpected. On a purely physical level, there is no denying it does feel good. He wraps his arms around Mycroft and pulls him closer, pulls himself deeper, holds the position for a long moment. But this is far from sufficient. If this physical connection was all that was required of them, he’d extract himself and they’d end this.

Steadily, he moves with gentle thrusts, until his own pre-ejaculate begins to serve as lubrication. Grateful for this small benefit, he quickens his pace, pulling out and back, loosening his grip slightly on Mycroft’s penis so his hand slides freely against it while he increases the pace of his hips until he can feel his orgasm building. He slings his other arm diagonally across Mycroft’s chest, turning his face to the side to bury his cheek in Mycroft’s shoulder blades, his hand clawing at the front of Mycroft’s shoulder to counter his urge to cry out, and finally, he is able to let it come. He collapses against Mycroft, who exhales deeply in relief, and continues the steady strokes until Mycroft succumbs with a hoarse shout. 

Sherlock lifts his head up from where it was nestled into Mycroft’s back and sees John quickly turning away.

Well, of course he’d watch. Sherlock wishes John wasn’t so ashamed of that. It’s not something one could simply ignore. An incredulous gaze would have been easier for him to handle than the hasty denial. But he has greater concerns than John’s reactions. They are finished here. He will ensure Mycroft gets proper medical attention, though he will likely refuse it. The only thing he can barter with for that will likely be the right to self-imposed isolation as he recovers. 

Sherlock dresses himself and faces the screen. He is about to demand their release when Eurus’s projection disappears. There is a moment of static, and then the video wall displays three separate images of Sherlock and Mycroft, captured from various angles. This time John doesn’t bother to hide the direction of his gaze, as he turns to gape. Mycroft ignores the images, and slowly puts on his clothing. 

Sherlock watches Mycroft’s face on the screen, taking in the details he had missed while focusing on his own ability to follow through with the act. Mycroft’s face contorts, then smoothes, alternating between fleeting moments of pleasure immediately crushed by his determination not to lose himself to the sensations. It is a struggle for control, and when Mycroft has finally lost, his features show only grief and regret. Sherlock had not noticed Eurus’s voice before, fading into range. She is moving in closer, and there is the fleeting sound of affirmation—as if she had anticipated the sequence long in advance, pleased not so much by the sexual acts on display, (though she seems to enjoy this as well) but by the validity of her hypothesis. 

John is just as silent on film as he is watching the screen, standing at Sherlock’s side.

They both turn away to notice the outer door is wide open and Mycroft is already on his way through it. His decision to leave immediately, to avoid Sherlock entirely, speaks clearly of shame. But there is more to read, even in the limited amount of time Sherlock has before Mycroft is completely out of view. His gait has changed; his steps are far slower, the placement of them awkward. Pain. Sherlock closes his eyes and his chin drops to his chest. There was no way to have made this situation acceptable, but he had hoped he could have done better.

Sherlock glances at John, waits a moment more to afford Mycroft a small degree of privacy, and heads outside.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft sits, smoking cigarette after cigarette, stubbing them out into an ashtray nested between the sheets. His bed is flaked with ash. His hands are shaking from fatigue and nicotine. He thumbs through his mobile, checking the news. Lady Smallwood has put him on enforced leave. She knows--everyone above a certain clearance knows, will have seen the recordings. Mycroft is glad he doesn’t have to face his colleagues, but he’s been locked out of his work email and any secure databases. He knows it’s for the best--he’s in no condition to make any decisions--but it galls, just the same. There’s nothing to _do_.

He could shower, he supposes. He showered once already, after the humiliating medical exam. Relieved himself, as well, but it still feels like Sherlock’s semen is inside him. He is still sore, which was to be expected, but there was no tearing. Sherlock was… thorough with his attentions. Mycroft’s face heats. He closes his eyes, sucking long and hard on his current cigarette. Sherlock’s tongue had felt good. Even under the circumstances. Which is why he begged him to stop. Pain, he was prepared for, had expected. Pleasure was too degrading to be borne.

What must Sherlock think of him now? Does he feel horrified? Betrayed? Is he replaying scenes from their childhood, looking for signs of Mycroft’s perversion? Whatever he must have felt upon the discovery, he hid it well, treating Mycroft with tenderness. Perhaps he didn’t dare show any signs of being shaken in front of Eurus. Maybe the shock just hadn’t worn off. It will, in time. He doesn’t want to think of what his brother will do once the knowledge has settled in. Will he avoid Mycroft? Confront him? Relapse?

He cannot face his brother, now that he knows Mycroft’s secret, has known him in the most intimate ways possible. Sherlock will have questions. _How long? Did you ever molest me? Did you want to?_ These, Mycroft can answer, though he does not wish to. There are other questions for which he has no answers. _What is wrong with you?_ _Why are you like this? Why haven’t you killed yourself?_

He has questions for Sherlock, too. Chiefly, why did Sherlock choose him? The most favorable explanation is that Sherlock thought him somehow safer. That he knew Mycroft would never hurt him. But there are darker explanations, lurking at the edges of his mind. Sherlock wanted to humiliate him. To punish him. But surely if that’s what he’d desired he could have done so much more. Mycroft had been at his mercy. And Eurus’s. The only degrading thing Sherlock had done had been--but perhaps he had honestly just been trying to prepare him.

The most likely explanation is that Sherlock wanted to preserve his relationship with John. He’d known that raping John would destroy their relationship, and so he’d raped Mycroft, because Mycroft was expendable. His chest aches with the truth of it.

Another question: what now? Mycroft can see no path forward from here. Neither is there any going back. There is only now, this sea of ash-flecked sheets. The scent of smoke saturating his hair. His skin. He can still feel Sherlock’s hands on it. Sliding under his shirt to stroke his sides, resting against the small of his back. He knows Sherlock was attempting to comfort him. But the tenderness of Sherlock’s touches only served to remind him that his brother was never meant to be his lover, should never have touched him that way.

It would have been better if Sherlock had been cold. Mechanical. Mycroft had positioned himself on all fours so they wouldn’t have to look at each other. He’d wanted for it to be detached. Impersonal. Instead Sherlock had been intimate with him. Kissed his neck. Whispered into his ear.

_I’m sorry. I will do what I can._

If he’d wanted to help Mycroft, why hadn’t he stopped once he’d finished? Why had he continued to stroke Mycroft until he’d succumbed over Sherlock’s hand? Eurus had shown them, after. Had projected various screencaps she’d taken, including Mycroft coming apart, collapsing forward onto his forearms, Sherlock slumping over him. Had Sherlock been proving a point? Wanted incontrovertible proof of Mycroft’s desire? Had it been some misguided attempt to make the encounter “good” for him?

He will never know the answers, because he will never ask these questions. He sucks his cigarette to the filter, goes to stub it. The ashtray is overflowing. On impulse, Mycroft puts it out on the inside of his wrist.

The searing pain is immediate. A blister wells from under his skin. It throbs hard with each heartbeat. That was stupid. It’s below the cuff line. People will see, and know that he’s miserable, that he has no self-control. Mycroft shoves the cigarette butt with the others and rolls onto his side, clutching his burned wrist. The pain dances behind his closed eyelids. He does not sleep.

 

* * *

His phone buzzes against the mattress. Text alert. Mycroft reaches for it.

**I’m sorry. I know I’ve already said that and that it probably doesn’t make a difference. I hope you are physically fine at least.--S**

Mycroft swallows.

**I hope in time you can forgive me. I hope in time you will see me again.--S**

Forgive him. Mycroft had always assumed it would be him beseeching his brother’s absolution. He cannot stomach the thought of seeing Sherlock now. It is too much. He presses the power button on his phone until it switches off.

It’s three in the morning. He’s given up hope of sleep. Mycroft goes downstairs and fixes himself a drink. Talisker. Straight. Three finger-widths. He sits in his study and listens to Debussy. He reads _Meditations_ by Marcus Aurelius. 

_I hear you say, “How unlucky I am that this should happen to me.” But not at all. Perhaps say instead, “How lucky I am that I am not broken by what has happened, and am not afraid of what is about to happen. For the same blow might have stricken any one, but not many who would have absorbed it without capitulation and complaint.”_

Is this why Sherlock chose Mycroft and spared John? Because he thought Mycroft better able to absorb the blow? But Mycroft lacks the strength of Marcus Aurelius. He has been broken by what has happened. He fears what will happen. Still, he will not complain.

At quarter to five in the morning, he summons a car to take him to the Diogenes. He sits quietly, reads _The Guardian_ and _Le Monde_ and _El País_ , drinks his coffee black. No one here knows that his brother took him on his hands and knees the day before. No one disturbs him. His mobile sits switched off in his pocket.

Hunger begins to twist his belly. He ignores it, takes another coffee instead. He wants to empty out his body. Of Sherlock. Of everything.

There are three missed texts from Sherlock when he returns home and checks his mobile.

**I’m worried about you. Please at least let me know you are all right--S**

**If you are not all right please let me know that, too--S**

**Please know my opinions of you are unchanged. I don’t respect or care for you any less.--S**

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at the last. He doubts it. But he knows Sherlock means to be kind. Mycroft sighs, and replies to the last text.

**I am fine. I think it is best for us both if we forget the entire incident.**

**Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t forget and neither can you--S**

**Nevertheless, I have no desire to speak of it.**

**I need to talk to you--S**

Mycroft doesn’t reply. He goes to his study and fixes himself another whiskey. On an empty stomach, it goes straight to his head. He doesn’t mind.

After a night’s insomnia he repeats the cycle. Diogenes at quarter to five. _The Guardian_. _Le Monde. El País._ His stomach gnaws. He orders a tray of finger sandwiches and eats two.

**Please talk to me--S**

**I miss you--S**

Mycroft scowls.

**I’m coming to the Diogenes to meet with you--S**

Mycroft calls a car and heads home. He cannot face Sherlock. Surely his brother must understand why he needs space. He disarms his alarm--something is off there, it doesn’t beep at him before he puts the code in and--damn. Sherlock’s already disabled it. He considers turning around and taking the car back to the Diogenes but decides against it. Sherlock is dead set on seeing him, he might as well see what he has to say.

Mycroft lets himself in, hangs his coat, and makes his way towards the study. Sherlock is sitting in his chair, legs in the figure four position, hands steepled in his lap. Mycroft stands in front of him and sighs. 

“You’ve invaded my home. I would have hoped you would have respected my privacy.”

“I would have hoped that you would have addressed this issue with me directly so there would have been no need. I’m sorry, Mycroft, but you can’t continually avoid this. I saw no other alternative.”

Mycroft fixes himself a drink. He doesn’t offer one to Sherlock. He takes a seat on the sofa. “Say what you came to say, then. I will listen.”

“I know you don’t believe that I don’t respect or care for you any less. I intend to remedy that misconception. I know you well enough to be certain you did nothing you thought might harm me.”

He is grateful that Sherlock doesn’t suspect the worst of him, at least. It’s the best he can hope for. “I never wanted you to know. That you know is harmful enough.”

“The harm is not in my knowing. I always was aware of… something that was different. ‘Off’ might be the better term?”

Mycroft winces.

“Not anything I could pinpoint or understand at the time. But now that I understand it better, we can be honest with each other. Can we try that? Being honest about this?”

Mycroft stares into his drink. Sherlock will never believe him if he tries to lie. “What Eurus said is…. It had a basis in truth. I have loved you. Always. Since before you were born. Somehow that love became… twisted. Perhaps it was because I went away to school and then when I came back you were… grown up. And something of a stranger. I’m not trying to make excuses. Only explain. I found you beautiful, and not… I desired you. I have done for a long time. Since your teens. I never wanted you to know, for fear it would burden you. But now you know, and I… I am sorry.”

“You were right to have held back that information. I would not have understood it when I was younger. I am far from an adolescent now. She also said you were concerned about power. About having been my caretaker. Is that correct as well?”

“What she said about… wanting to control you. I never…. I only wanted to protect you. I took care of you when you were small because I am older and it was my duty. And I was glad to do it, because I care for you. Perhaps I kept a closer watch than was appropriate because I was… interested. And you’ve always been a challenge to look after, and I was glad whenever you listened to me, did as I wanted. I like having my own way. But I swear I never did anything… untoward. I knew that I had power over you and I never wanted to…. I never forgot that you are my brother, Sherlock. Whatever Eurus said, that’s not an arbitrary social taboo.”

“Most social taboos are, if not arbitrary, then at the very least archaic. And our age difference hardly matters now that we are adults who are capable of making their own choices. Including which rules to obey and which to discard. What I mean to say is, I don’t want you to think I find your interest repulsive.”

Mycroft frowns. _He_ finds his interest repulsive.

“You believe I do, that I judge you for it, I want you to know that I don’t. To truly believe that I don’t. I… the circumstances Eurus dictated were impossible. This is something I think we need to consider, to explore, privately.” 

Mycroft’s brain stutters. “Surely you can’t possibly be suggesting….”

“Because it would defy convention?” Sherlock stands up from his chair, paces in front of it. “I said it and I meant it. I think no less of you for the impulse. It is an interesting impulse. Under the right conditions, I’m open to the possibility. More than that, I am intrigued by it.” He stops mid-pace, whirls towards Mycroft. “What did you really want, Mycroft? Please. Tell me, and we can make it happen. The right way. Not in a way designed to shame you or test me.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft chooses his next words carefully. It’s important that he say what he ought to feel, even if he doesn’t, if it’s not quite true. “I know that Eurus put you in a horrific position. I know you must feel some guilt for the choice you were forced to make. But please know I don’t hold you accountable. You don’t… owe me anything. And if this is some kind of attempt to repay me, you needn’t. I don’t want anything from you, Sherlock. I never did. It was all just… fantasy.”

“Fantasy is an acceptable substitution when what you long for is unattainable in reality. Again, it was the appropriate choice at the time. I also wish we could put the events at Sherrinford aside. All of them. But it did serve to bring us to this point. It does not need to remain mere fantasy.”

Sherlock crosses the room into Mycroft’s space. He raises one hand to Mycroft’s cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. He looks down at him, eyes searching, expectant.

Mycroft places his own hand on top of Sherlock’s, pulse fluttering fast. Then he lifts Sherlock’s hand away, slowly circles it down to his side.

“You still don’t believe me, do you? You feared my reaction. What we experienced before is not what this could become. This would be new. And ours. We can’t go back in time, erase it, but we can make something better. More powerful. A stronger memory.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Sherlock. We can’t just overwrite it.”

“Why not?” Sherlock straddles him, one leg on either side of Mycroft’s on the sofa, and twines his arms around Mycroft’s neck. He crushes their mouths together in an awkward mess of clacking teeth.

Mycroft tries to pull away but Sherlock holds him fast, worms his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth. It’s artless--but it gets the point across. Wet and desperate and insistent. Despite himself, Mycroft is responding, heat rushing to his groin as Sherlock paws at his chest, slides his fingers under his jacket.

“I want to make this right for you,” Sherlock murmurs into his ear. “For me, too. Not leave it where we did--the both of us made to feel wrong.”

“Sherlock, this is still--” Mycroft pulls away from the kisses Sherlock is placing along his neck. “This is still wrong. I don’t know what Eurus did to you--”

“She didn’t do anything to me.”

“She made you rape me.” And he’s said it. He never meant to use the word in front of Sherlock. It’s not his fault.

Sherlock frowns, a small crease forming between his brows. “She gave us an unwelcome audience and no time to process this new wrinkle in our relationship.”

Mycroft’s mouth falls open. “That’s all Sherrinford was to you? An unwelcome audience?”

“I’m not trying to belittle what it feels like to have that dragged into the open, to have been robbed of your privacy. It was an attempt to punish you and drive us apart. Fortunately I am able to think before I react to such… an orchestrated ploy. You are unharmed, and it has no true negative consequence on our relationship.”

“No true negative--” Mycroft pushes Sherlock backwards, overbalancing him so that he topples gracelessly onto the floor. 

“I don’t--” Sherlock sputters, and attempts to collect himself. “Again, I know it was far from how you would have wanted it to be. I understand that. That’s why I was offering another opportunity. Which, you clearly would prefer not to accept. Fine.” He stands, smoothing his suit coat.

“Then perhaps this meeting is at an end.”

Sherlock looks at Mycroft, opens his mouth, and then shuts it again. “I’ll see myself out.” He strides across the room and leaves without turning back.

Sherlock’s retreating footsteps echo softly in the hall, then dissipate into silence. Mycroft slumps on the sofa, elbows on his chest, head in his hands, the heels of his palms pressing into his eye sockets. The burn on his wrist is still tender. He wants to sink into the sofa. To disappear. To die.


	4. Chapter 4

He’s messed things up. Badly. So badly, in fact, that Mycroft has lost all interest in him. For Mycroft, the act itself was not unwanted so much as was the time, the place, the other…incidentals. True, those were far from insignificant, but…. Well, that’s the simpler way to view it, in any case. Mycroft would have undoubtedly gone his entire life without ever having said a word to anyone, without ever dreaming of acting on it. But there it was, suddenly laid out before them. It was entirely reasonable to attempt to reframe the experience. That was what he wanted to do, after all. Show his brother he was fully capable of making objective, neutral, rationally-fueled decisions. Yes, sexual intimacy was emotionally wrought, but it didn’t have to be.

Even if he didn’t feel drawn to Mycroft in a sexual sense, that wasn’t a prohibitory factor in Sherlock’s propositioning him. They could both benefit from not simply reframing the experience—a valid goal in and of itself—but drawing some degree of physical intimacy from one another. If Mycroft found it more in line with a primal sexual gratification and less of a reassurance of the continued strength of their relationship, which happened to be taking a sexual form, then so be it. That would not faze Sherlock at all. Mycroft could have that if he wanted it. He deserved it, even. What Sherlock really wanted was his brother back. The way it was before shame stole him from him. And the best way to do that, since the realisation of Mycroft’s attraction could not be erased, was to work through it. Past it. Come out the other side whole. It was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make—an easy trade.

That Mycroft felt attracted to him was not entirely surprising, if he’s honest with himself. He sensed it. Sensed something. Something awkward and nebulous, mixed with a distinct avoidance when he hit late adolescence. He is grateful for the explanation, not horrified about what it revealed. Mycroft wants him. And what is sex but an expression of love, anyway? Or at least it could be; the only block is what society considers appropriate in this period of history. He can make his own decision on that.

But Sherrinford….

The biggest decisions often turned upon the smallest of points. And this one had been so simple. Mycroft wanted him. John didn’t. The rest was extraneous. Mere background noise. It had been the correct decision. But one aspect threatened to derail all his careful logic: if it was the right thing to do, why does he feel so miserable about it? There is no accounting for that. He hoped meeting with Mycroft would solidify his conviction that he had made the right choice.

It hadn’t.

And it wasn’t until Mycroft pushed him away that he noticed it. Only the smallest sliver of a circle appeared beneath his shirt cuff, but the size and shape were unmistakable. Mycroft always seemed to brush off self-destructive tendencies—Sherlock reigned supreme as the one to watch out for. But that mark, that he almost failed to notice, changes everything. Mycroft didn’t conquer his weight issues, he’d attacked them without mercy. He’d tamped down his emotions in much the same way. And now that his body, through his perceived deviance, was the enemy once more, he had punished it for its intransigence. The mark was recent. Sherlock was too late. If only he hadn’t tried to respect Mycroft’s wish to be alone. It had been a dangerous hesitancy, and this is the proof. He will watch Mycroft closely from now on, and not hesitate when it comes time to interfere. This is more important than privacy.

Sherlock tried to brush the events at Sherrinford aside, but clearly Mycroft finds that impossible. And though his brother’s coping mechanisms are eroding, Sherlock can’t help but think that perhaps Mycroft has taken the wiser path. Sherlock’s emotions are an explosion waiting for precisely the wrong moment to detonate.

Mycroft had called it rape; Sherlock should define it in that manner also—though he fought against it surprisingly strongly in his own mind, considering the objective facts. It might help Mycroft to say this, to acknowledge it as having been fully beyond his control. It undoubtedly had been. Could it be a rape without his being made a rapist? Possibly. One would like to hope intent counts for something. But if that was what he was—and more importantly, if that was the first thing Mycroft saw when he looked at him—then of course his brother would avoid him, refuse him. When Mycroft looked at him, was that all he could see?

Sherlock had tried. Tried so hard to make it the best he possibly could. And he had failed. And now Mycroft has no desire to see him again in any context. Context. Even the word reminds him of Eurus now, and he immediately hears Eurus’s voice in response, “Life is never fair, Sherlock,” coupled with the distinct impression that she had told him that many times before, in his childhood. Their childhood. And maybe life wasn’t. He thought he could fix this, he certainly hadn’t, and now no one wanted him. And how wrong is that—equating sexual attraction with the more generic ‘wanting’.

And what does _he_ ‘want’? Some sort of comfort after all of this. Someone to let him know that what he did was at the very least well-meaning. Deserving of some sort of sympathy. John was too shocked to have offered anything resembling that, and, after all, from his view his friend appears to be holding up rather well. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe Sherlock should let things fall apart. Enough so that how he feels inside matches how he’s presenting himself to the world. Keeping up appearances is exhausting, and it isn’t even benefiting either him or Mycroft at this point. He needs to stop.

Resting without thinking is an impossibility. He is always thinking. Always always always a tangle of thoughts. But when he’s high, his brain goes on doing its thing without stopping to inform his consciousness. It is the closest thing to peace he has ever found—thinking without actually thinking. He inevitably catches up to himself, but the processing aspect seems to shift to his, perhaps even more powerful, subconscious.

Fortunately, Billy isn’t avoiding him. He doesn’t require anything quite as extreme as last time, but Billy’s own personal cocktail is likely just what he needs.

* * *

Sherlock considers stretching to reach his mobile, which he has set on the table next to four nicotine patch wrappers and an empty syringe, and decides against it; he will estimate the time by the angle of the sunbeam through the opposite window. It’s close to two. John will be home soon. He closes his eyes once more. Everything is still as vivid as ever with this mixture running through his veins, he just feels less inclined to do anything about it. The input is--beautiful. The sounds are distorted, yes, but he still knows what they are. He’s processed them, decided they are mere street noise—unimportant—and moved on, all without full awareness. But it has been some time now. Nearly the entire length of the second half of John’s shift, and the timing should be perfect for… something. He thought this through a few hours ago, when everything was running like a well-oiled machine. Whatever it was, it had made sense at the time. And now John is due home, just as he is lucid enough to make his state seem less of an issue. Not that John will be happy about it. Of course not. He’ll be angry. But John will take care of him, too. And that is more important.

The sound of steps is easy to distinguish from the myriad other sounds of Baker Street. As John is entering the room, Sherlock speaks without moving a muscle, not even to open his eyes.

“I’m done with trying to act as if this is in any way acceptable, John. It’s not okay. I’m not okay. It’s about time I acted like it wasn’t. Today…. Today, I give up. We shall see what tomorrow brings.”

John is hesitating. Sherlock doesn’t see it, but he feels it. Then the footsteps as John walks over to Sherlock and places a kiss on his forehead, just like his nan used to do when he was sick before announcing if he had a temperature. Sherlock smiles softly. Then John places two fingers against his carotid artery. Of course. His pulse is relatively strong, his colour likely no more pale than usual.

“Coming down, John. Not too much longer now before it’s all done.”

John sits in his chair, probably set to watch over him. Then he pulls out his mobile and begins to tap at it.

“Don’t,” says Sherlock, eyes still closed.

John stops. Sherlock hears the faint sound of his lips parting, then closing. What was John going to say? As he considers this, Sherlock feels as if he is tapping into that space… that web… where everything is connected. Where he can actually peer into John’s thoughts. He knows he isn’t quite--it is just the hallucinogenic effect of Billy’s latest offering--but words still seem to hang in the air between them, forming in the emptiness, palpable, and more accurate than if they were spoken aloud. It should be an illusion, but that doesn’t stop Sherlock from considering if he is actually seeing a greater truth. He hears John in his head now, delaying sending word to Mycroft out of pity for all Mycroft must be handling, not wanting to burden him with this as well. And then there is anger. A wave of it. Anger that this is all Mycroft’s own making.

 _You didn’t start this, Sherlock. You didn’t start any of this. You never asked to have a psychopath for a sister and a paedophile for a brother._ In John’s mind, there is only one person worthy of sympathy here, and Sherlock basks for a moment, chest swelling with it. _Here he is, my best friend, higher than a fucking kite on our sofa._ Just this once, John doesn’t blame him.

Sherlock knows John is missing crucial parts of the narrative, but it is not something he can hope to explain without losing his favour, and he needs it so very desperately. Sherlock opens his eyes.

“No, wait. Do. See if you can tell if he is all right.”

John nods and begins to type once more.

A moment passes and John smirks. Types. Waits. Turns to watch Sherlock some more, then types again. Then he speaks. “I can’t tell how he is. I may have just, pissed him off a bit. I….”

“You said what you were thinking without a filter, but you stand by it because it is how you feel. The more you try to reach for some sort of empathy, the more unattainable it is for you.”

“Yeah. To be honest, I find it difficult to communicate with him at all. I don’t understand how you can care about him. The more I think about it, the more I feel… umm, kind of sick, actually. I mean… I have a sister. I can’t imagine someone…. I’m sorry. I know you must still love him. It must be impossible to hold all these conflicting views of the same person. No wonder you… well….”

“I propositioned him.”

John puts the mobile down in what looks to Sherlock like slow motion. Everything is drawn out to an impossible, surreal detail. John’s expression shifts from sympathy to shock, to… sympathy? That can’t be right.

“He refused,” Sherlock adds quickly. Trying to sound as if it was far less painful a rebuke than it had been.

“You… are sure you don’t actually… want him? I promise I’ll try to work my head around it if you say you do. It might take a bit, but—”

“No. I just… felt it would make things better if I… Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“And you would get… what… exactly, then? I don’t see why you’d go to him. For some type of control?”

Sherlock searches for words that fit. He knows what they aren’t, but he doesn’t quite know what they are. “Comfort?” It’s still not right, but it’s close. Maybe some form of reassurance.

“Sherlock, if this is about comfort in the form of sex, you should have just come right to me for that.”

“Right.”

“No. Really.”

“Thank you for your theoretical shift John ‘The H Stands For Heterosexual’ Watson.”

“That really has nothing to do with it.”

Sherlock scoffs and rolls back into the sofa as John continues.

“I expected you to choose me, you know.”

“Of course you did. The very notion of a less than conventional choice would be beyond your _scope_.” Sherlock pops the final consonant. “Consequently, making several scenarios entirely impossible.” That came out completely wrong. Where did all that hostility come from? Coming down hard now. That was… brief. No, it’s been hours. Hours of peace, and now it’s fading.

“Well. You’ve managed to insult me on multiple levels with that one. Good job.” John gets up and begins pacing. “I’m fully capable of not going with the more conventional choice, you know. I just figured you’d choose… well, I’m sure you weighed your options carefully, based on things I’d never have noticed in a million years. Don’t go on punishing yourself. You did what was right, and it’s over. ”

Sherlock turns back to face John. “You’re lying.”

“Of course I’m not lying. It was an impossibly cruel situation to have been placed in. You need to show yourself some more compassion. Or, let me show it to you.”

Sherlock pushes himself up to nearly-sitting and follows him with a slight turn of his head. “And if I had chosen you?”

“Sherlock, that is irrelevant. It’s over, thank God, and what’s done is done. No one would have wanted to have experienced that. Including you. And just bearing witness to it all and trying to make sure you were both, physically, more or less fine… and checking that your sister didn’t decide to throw God knows what else into the mix while you two were distracted… well. There was no good solution for anyone involved.”

“But you think choosing _you _would have been preferable. Choose the person who didn’t want me over the one who did. Choose the person who was more emotionally volatile. Choose the person less able to accept—“__

__“Okay, okay! What I am saying is, I would have been perfectly fine if you had chosen me instead. I know for sure I wouldn’t think less of you. You would have done whatever was necessary to get us safely out of there.” John paused and then continued on with some hesitancy. “And it’s true right? What she said about… how you feel about me?”_ _

__Sherlock kept his voice as flat as possible. “Yes. It’s true.”_ _

__“And I know I would have realised that what you would have had to do… what we would have had to do… was separate from what we are. But it would be difficult for you to have had a moment like…that…under those circumstances,” John begins to gesture emphatically, “and I am open-minded enough to have accepted the tremendous conflict that you would have faced. Just as I am open-minded enough to realise when my best friend wants someone to care for him in a more… physical way… that I could step in and—”_ _

__Sherlock grins and takes the opportunity to pounce. “Oh, you are ‘open-minded’. One of those ‘open-minded’ ones who’d suck off their gay friend just to prove how fine they are with the whole notion of people being gay.” This is familiar territory now, the low after the high. At least John will recognise it, too. Still, even if he wasn’t fighting his downswing, John provided precisely the wrong blend of measured sympathy and self-congratulatory ‘acceptance’._ _

__“Uh, no, Sherlock. Not quite.” He sits down again, though he still leans forward restlessly, his elbows on his knees. “I’m not closeted. I’m not bisexual… not open to a thing with a man on occasion, though I generally prefer women. I’m not playing games with myself. Believe me, my sister was out by the time I started secondary school and I’ve had plenty of time to mull this stuff over. I'm not in that Men Who Sleep With Men category they talked about in NHS training, either. The ones who were not _gay_ , just… did gay things every damn weekend and went back to the wives they paraded to the world as proof that they weren’t part of that ‘lifestyle’—even if they liked a bit of the rough every now and then. I’m not like that. I don't feel any sexual attraction to men—and no, you aren't some magical exception.” He leans back in his chair. “Though sometimes, I wish you were.”_ _

__“Sometimes I wish I were as well. But this just proves my point, John. You couldn't do that. Not then. Not as… ‘comfort’ either… so—”_ _

__“Wait a sec. Couldn’t? Of course I could. And without some sexual identity crisis. I could have sex with you and still be just as straight as I ever was the next morning. Just something I did. Wouldn’t define me. Wouldn’t change me.”_ _

__“And what if you enjoyed it as opposed to tolerated it? I mean… given the circumstances at Sherrinford, enjoying it wasn’t possible. But your suggestion I should have came to you first? If it was unpleasant, it would have been… unpleasant. If it was in any way pleasurable, I find it hard to believe that you’d—“_ _

__“Sherlock, I could have sex with you right now, and enjoy myself, and it would only serve to prove my point. I’m not attracted to men, but it would have helped you, and given time and effort, the body does what it does best, eventually.”_ _

__As Sherlock’s body eventually had. “I’m well aware.”_ _

__“Fuck. I’m sorry.”_ _

__“Not important. I know what you meant to convey. Go on. Provided we were both fine with what we were doing, it would be a good experience?”_ _

__John runs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. I mean, you are my best friend, Sherlock. And if you needed that from me, I would do it. I wouldn’t say it was the type of experience I’d prefer. I’d prefer being sexually attracted to the person I’m… having sex with. But it’s still the same chemicals and such. Not in the same amount, probably. I don’t know. Not as if I regularly have sex with people I don't find sexy.”_ _

__Sherlock frowns._ _

__“Look, it’s not as though you aren’t sexy. Just not to me. I mean you are attractive. Just. It does nothing for me. Not like it’s your fault. I’m… I’m sorry.”_ _

__“You’re sorry you don't find me sexually appealing? Don’t be ridiculous.”_ _

__“No, I meant, I’m sorry it’s one-sided. I, kinda thought you might be gay but—”_ _

__Sherlock pushes his body up some more until he is sitting properly. “Ah, what gave me away, John? The hair product? The swishy coat? Was it the Dolce & Gabbana? Do I lisp just a bit when I’ve had too much to drink?”_ _

__“Hey, don’t come at me on this! I don’t know! I just, thought maybe you were. Maybe.”_ _

__“Well if you were observant enough, you might have caught me ogling some of the members of the Royal Guard. Not the naked one bleeding on the floor. I do have some professionalism.”_ _

__John laughs._ _

__“Sorry. More like I wasn’t sure, and you never tried to hit on any of my girlfriends.”_ _

__“Straight men really do that sort of thing?”_ _

__“Well, just a certain letting them know if it didn’t work out, you are a possibility. No one ever tried to steal anyone’s girlfriend or anything, but there is just this sort of, almost subconscious flirting going on that… well… you didn’t do.”_ _

__“I see.”_ _

__“But then again maybe you just weren’t interested in anyone. At all.”_ _

__“Well. In a physical sense, yes, I was interested. In terms of pursuing a relationship, not at all. Until I realised I was already in one.”_ _

__“But we’re not.”_ _

__“John. I understand why you wouldn’t define it as such, lacking the sexual component, but I see it as relationship, nonetheless. Even a bit of a romantic one.”_ _

__John raises his eyebrows and cocks his head._ _

__Sherlock reminds himself that John has likely given this a minimum amount of thought—his previous relationships would have been with women he did feel some degree of innate attraction to—as he tries to sound somewhat amiable instead of frustrated once more by John’s obsession with the conventional._ _

__“But of course, you would consider those things inseparable, so therefore our romantic relationship is a friendship. A very meaningful friendship. And that is…” (Annoying as hell.) “…Fine.” And really, it is fine. Because it is also more than Sherlock ever expected to have with anyone. “That you do not feel the same degree of sexual attraction that I have…” The words are more difficult to voice than Sherlock had expected. John doesn’t feel the same way and it is fine. He can express this. They are long past any concern of John being offended, of moving out. “...That I feel toward you is irrelevant. Those needs are easily enough met elsewhere.”_ _

__“But, you don’t date.”_ _

__“I didn’t mean with another person.”_ _

__“Oh. So. You mean….”_ _

__“And that is also fine. When necessary. In short, what we have works for me. And it works for you, obviously. And that's why I wouldn’t wish to challenge it.” Sherlock stops, takes a breath. This next bit needs to be said. “Yes, I love you. Yes, that occasionally takes on a sort of physical manifestation on my part. I trust you have no issue with that.”_ _

__The words have far less of an effect than Sherlock had anticipated. John merely shakes his head, then clarifies, “No. None whatsoever.”_ _

__“But believe me, it is fine with me.”_ _

__“Well. Good. Then.”_ _

__His hesitation speaks volumes. “You’re disappointed? Are you sure you’re not one of those open-minded ones, John?”_ _

__John laughs. “No. Really not.”_ _

__“Well, that I actually believe.”_ _

__John fires back, “As opposed to what?”_ _

__“As opposed to this ridiculous notion that you don’t think sleeping with a man would affect your self-concept.”_ _

__There is an extended moment when John’s face shows every detail of the processing of his thoughts. At the end of a longish chain of naked expressions he finally grins. “You’re manipulating me.”_ _

__Sherlock tosses a hand to the side. “Perhaps. My mind runs faster than I can keep pace with when I’m high.”_ _

__“But you aren’t anymore.”_ _

__“Not now, no. But I was when we started this conversation. I see the end at the beginning.” It sounds profound, but it is simply fact. Except, he is still feeling the effects of the drug. Now it is just a bit of a haze. Apparently punctuated with bouts of mild irritability._ _

__John pulls his jumper off over his head. “Well, come on then.”_ _

__Sherlock laughs. Then stops cold. “You’re serious.” He tries to hide his own shock at this outcome. _This was what I was after? Yes. This is it. What I wanted. More of John. And this is how I decided to get here. It is shameful. Is it shameful? Why is it shameful? Because this is not what John wants. He is only doing this because he—___

“Yup.” He grins. “I told you it is fine, and besides...I don’t much like being called a liar.”

John takes his shirt off as he moves toward Sherlock’s room, dropping it on the floor.

Sherlock stares at the discarded shirt, wondering what happens next. It would feel idiotic to remind John that he doesn’t have to do this. Doesn’t need to prove anything. John is certainly well aware of that fact. The only logical conclusion he can come to at the moment is John has been looking for a reason. And this serves as well as any. It doesn’t make sense, for a straight man. But Sherlock is not seeing this as John is. And, maybe he can’t. Especially not when he is just now coming down and still feeling a bit disoriented. He doesn’t want to question it any longer, either. He follows John to his bedroom.

John is sitting on the bed, taking off his shoes and socks. “Anything you want to tell me before we get started?”

“Not that I can think of, no.” He won’t tell John he is still high. John might make a fuss about consent if he knew. Ridiculous. He’s wanted this for years now. Expected that he would want it for decades.

John’s eyes are twinkling with mischief. “Since you are so convinced I am going to have some sort of sexual crisis, would it better prove how ridiculous that is if I were on bottom?”

Sherlock flushes at the directness, and John’s grin grows wider. “Or I could suck you off. Or maybe both. That’d do it, right?”

Sherlock turns back toward the sitting room. “John, you made your point. I believe you.”

“Good. Now let’s do it anyway.”

Sherlock stares at him from the doorway and begins to say the pointless words. He can’t think of anything else. “You don’t need to, with me. It’s—”

“I never needed to prove anything anyway. Think of it as ‘why the hell not’ sex. And I don’t even care if you are manipulating me. Just so you know.” John looks up at Sherlock, who is still frozen in place. “Unless you don’t want to anymore, that is. You should know I can’t promise I’ll ever do this again. I’m far more concerned about if it’s fair to you than I am about losing my sense of identity.”

“I…do. Want to do this. Even if I can’t…Even if it’s only once.”

John is going to do this for him. To him. With him. John, a man of intense and unyielding habits and regulations...somewhere in his protocol it is permitted to do this. Maybe just once. Maybe under some category that Sherlock doesn’t even seem to possess—one reserved for casual sexual encounters. In any case, John is sliding his hands down Sherlock’s body and he intends to record every second. Starting with this. John Watson removing Sherlock’s pants and wasting no time in pressing his lips to the tip of his cock.


	5. Chapter 5

**He is using again, but he’s safe.**

Mycroft stares at his screen. That Sherlock is using is hardly surprising--he’d have seen it coming if he wasn’t so trapped inside his own head. But using what? How can it be safe? Is John monitoring him? Administering the drugs to him?

**He wants me to somehow figure out how you are doing without asking directly, but since it’s you we’re talking about, I won’t bother with all that and will just flat out ask.**

Sherlock knows how Mycroft is. Sherlock is responsible for how Mycroft is. So he doesn’t respond, instead asks his own question.

**Is he with you?**

**Yes, he is in our sitting room, and coming down, with supervision.**

John is enabling him. John thinks Sherlock is entitled to or at least expected to get high and he doesn’t want to go to the effort of stopping him. He’s trying to guilt Mycroft into a response. Mycroft will not be guilted. Sherlock is punishing him for refusing him, but that was right. He’d do it again.

**He wants to know, Mycroft. He obviously cares about you anyway. The least you can do, given that you are the reason Eurus was able to set up her little grand finale, is answer the question.**

Mycroft is the reason Eurus was able to set up her grand finale. Yes. It was his weakness Eurus exploited. His secret that Eurus exposed. John blames him. Mycroft blames himself. But Mycroft blames Sherlock, too. Sherlock had a choice and he chose Mycroft to spare John. Mycroft owes John nothing. He’s certainly not going to let John guilt him into _talking about his feelings_ because Sherlock is throwing a temper tantrum.

Mycroft switches off his phone. Then he changes into his workout clothes and goes for a run on the treadmill. He needs to clear his head.

 

* * *

 

He falls into a routine. In the morning he goes to the Diogenes. Drinks his coffee and reads the international papers. Two finger sandwiches for lunch. In the afternoon he returns home. Changes clothes, runs, showers. He has a low-fat yogurt and a piece of fruit for dinner. Whiskey in the evenings with Marcus Aurelius and Debussy. Then he lays in bed and smokes and remembers the way Sherlock felt inside him. It’s hateful. He ought to be at work.

Lady Smallwood has taken over his day-to-day duties, as well as the containment of Eurus. She has ordered him to take off two weeks at a minimum. And then she’s demanded he have a psychiatric evaluation. Mycroft will lie his way through it, of course. Eurus made up his infatuation with Sherlock, projected her own depraved fantasies onto him. Mycroft forgives his brother and holds no grudge against him. A return to work and normalcy will aid his recovery.

He will never recover. There will never be anything like normalcy again.

Mycroft sucks his cigarette, letting the smoke drift up around him. It’s disgusting. Smoking indoors. In bed. Sherlock noticed the burn, he’s sure of it. Mycroft picks at the scab. It itches. The pull of the scab on skin is not unpleasant. He wants to scratch deeper, to draw blood, but that will only make it worse, more visible. Hopefully it will flake before his psych eval.

He puts the cigarette out and lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t sleep much these days, but it’s probably good for him to at least lie still in the darkness. Is Sherlock sleeping now? Is he also lying awake? Is he thinking of Mycroft? Of John?

Mycroft turns on his side and closes his eyes.

Mycroft finally returns to his office only to find Sherlock has gotten there before him. His brother lolls in the chair behind the desk, feet atop it.

“What are you doing here?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock smirks. He looks Mycroft up and down, either weighing him to the ounce or else disrobing him with his eyes. Maybe both. He takes his feet off the desk and gets up, liquid smooth, like a cobra rising from a basket. He walks around the desk and stands in front of it, leaning back on his hands. His eyes lock on Mycroft’s.

“Kneel.”

Mycroft understands that it’s a command. That it’s directed at him. It still doesn’t make any sense.

Sherlock steps towards him, runs his hand along Mycroft’s jaw, cups his chin. Mycroft is taller, but he still feels that Sherlock is somehow looking down at him. Sherlock touches Mycroft’s lower lip with his thumb. His lips part involuntarily, and Sherlock slides his finger in, caressing Mycroft’s tongue. He presses in two fingers, then three, then pushes down, down, pulling on Mycroft’s teeth and jaw until he takes the hint and sinks. Sherlock pulls his hand free as Mycroft goes to his knees; his fingers trail spittle across Mycroft’s cheek.

Mycroft looks up. Sherlock’s lips curve up into a smile, there’s fondness in his eyes. He drops his hands to his trousers and unbuttons his flies. Lowers his zip. Mycroft parts his lips again. Sherlock pulls his prick free, slides the head into Mycroft’s ready mouth.

Mycroft works him slowly, relaxing his jaw, taking him deep.

Sherlock tightens his fingers in the hair at Mycroft’s nape. He guides Mycroft’s head up and down along his shaft.

“Show me.” Sherlock murmurs. “Show me how much you want me.”

Mycroft moans. He fumbles for his own cock, freeing it from his trousers, stroking himself as he sucks Sherlock.

“Yes!” says Sherlock. “Let me see.”

Mycroft releases Sherlock’s cock, trailing spittle, sits back on his heels, hand moving slowly up and down his shaft as he looks up at Sherlock.

Sherlock watches him, eyes rapt, wide. He wanks, eyes locked on Mycroft’s. “Come for me.”

Mycroft pulls himself harder, faster, twisting when he gets to the head. He can feel his pleasure building, low in his bollocks, which tighten.

Sherlock is close, too. He groans, and Mycroft shuffles closer, looks up with parted lips. Sherlock cries out and spurts onto Mycroft’s face.

It’s enough to push Mycroft over. He’s coming, over his hand, onto the floor. Sherlock is coming across his lips, rubbing semen against his cheeks.

Mycroft closes his eyes as Sherlock streaks his forehead and hair.

His brother pulls him close, stroking the back of his head. “Mycroft,” he murmurs. “Mycroft.”

He’s debauched. Come is in his eyelashes. He blinks. There are tears in his eyes.

“It’s all right.” Sherlock smooths his hair. “I love you. It’s fine.”

Mycroft wakes with tears on his pillow and a sticky mess in his pajama bottoms.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s too early for The Diogenes. Mycroft runs. The treadmill whines as his feet pound rhythmically beneath him. Mycroft increases the incline until his legs burn without letting up the pace. Sweat drips down his forehead, the back of his neck.

Sherlock does not actually want him. Whatever he thinks he feels for Mycroft, it’s a result of Sherrinford. Trauma. Sherlock feels guilty and is trying to give Mycroft something he thinks he wants.

Mycroft doesn’t want anything from Sherlock. Not anymore. Whatever fantasies he had, they’ve been eclipsed by the terrible reality of Sherrinford. And Mycroft’s fantasies were never like that dream. In his fantasies, Sherlock is cold. Cruel, even. Mocks him for his desire. Punishes him for it. It was the only way he could permit himself to think of his brother that way.

A tender, forgiving Sherlock is a compromised Sherlock. His boundaries have eroded to the point where he’s accepting of Mycroft’s perverse attraction. Sherlock allowed John to beat him. He allows Mycroft to lust for him. Mycroft hates himself, for having damaged his brother in this way.

He runs. Endorphins flood his veins. He’s floating outside his body, above the treadmill. He doesn’t feel his feet or knees moving beneath him. And then the world tilts, and he’s falling. He thrusts his arms in front of him, grasping for the handrails, but his feet have shot out from under him. He flies backwards and falls forwards, face connecting with the fast-moving rubber. Green and yellow sparks flare behind his eyes. Then blackness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW— for those of you attending 221B Con, Anarfea and I will be on the co-writing panel. Hope to see you there :)

It was better in his head. 

That’s not to say that being with someone wasn’t an improvement. Being with another person, with _John_ , made a tremendous difference, far beyond the obvious aspects of logistics. It was unexpected, surprising at times, and he found he didn’t have the experience to accurately read what action was to take place next.

It had skill. It had kindness, compassion, tenderness. It even had moments Sherlock could only loosely classify as wonder. And the physical sensations were, far more erotic, reactive, enjoyable, than he had ever expected. But it was lacking. 

It was far better when he would look John straight in the eye and tell him he knew the truth. Had seen the evidence time and time again, and he was done with waiting for John to resolve his trifling insecurities and lingering remnants of homophobia. When they were leaning against the wall, post-case and breathless, and Sherlock seamlessly shifted away from it, turned, using his greater overall size to the utmost advantage, to tower over John until he was covering him entirely. Then, Sherlock could see the flicker of fear from John’s uncertainty, coupled with the relief that he no longer had to fight against himself. Sherlock would grin, knowing he had been so very right, John’s eyes would flicker down for a moment, then raise to meet Sherlock’s in a confession, the last hint of embarrassment fading away as Sherlock kissed him. Then John, not wanting to be outdone, would kiss him back—with so much more genuine passion than he had ever expected. John would earn back every last scrap of those years of wanting.

But no. It had been, “Let’s do this,” and they had done it. No longing. No moment of surrender. No lingering regret for having waited so very, very long. 

Sherlock glances at his lit-up mobile idly, mostly to distract himself from his darkening thoughts. It’s Anthea’s number. He lunges for the phone to answer before it heads to voicemail, and the sudden movement disturbs John, who mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep. 

“What happened?” asks Sherlock.

“Mycroft is at Royal London Hospital,” says Anthea. “He had a fall on the treadmill this morning and hit his head, briefly losing consciousness. He wanted me to make an appointment with his physician--I insisted he go in for a CT.”

John is awake now, and listening carefully to Sherlock’s half of the conversation and straining to hear bits of Anthea through the echo of the mobile. Sherlock is already out of bed and selecting clothing as John struggles to his feet. 

“On my way.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

Sherlock hangs up, and quickly turns toward John as he slips on his trousers. “He’s in Royal London. I’ll be back later this evening.”

“You’re going to spend the day there.”

“I have medical authority for Mycroft should his condition worsen, but even if he remains conscious and relatively stable I will need to properly assess his condition and discuss treatment options. In addition to, well... visiting.”

“He’s in good hands there. I’m sure you can just check on his prognosis, maybe pop in briefly….”

“You don’t think I should be spending time with him.”

“I guess the question is, why would you want to?”

“My brother is in hospital and you are questioning whether or not I should care enough to do more than simply pass through?”

“This is hardly a normal relationship, Sherlock. Sometimes it felt as if you two were barely getting along even before he—”

Sherlock stops as he is about to button up his shirt. It hangs loosely on his frame. “Before he _what?_ ”

John covers his lap with the sheet and speaks slowly. “Before he was exposed for what he is.”

“That wasn’t what you were about to say. You were going to mention something specific.”

“Well, I can’t very well do that, can I? You didn’t know about this before. We don’t know what he might have done.”

“I know what he did.”

John turns to Sherlock, concerned.

“He guided me through a particularly painful childhood with my best interests at heart, advising me to tame my emotions in a somewhat misguided approach to spare me as much pain as possible. He let me bury things that were too painful to process and continually checked on my ability to do so in a safe and effective manner. He helped me develop my mind and provided me with techniques to enhance my aptitude and saw me through a socially awkward early adolescence, and when I hit puberty and he found himself becoming… unnaturally attached… he took great care to remove himself from my social sphere.”

“How can you… this is some form of Stockholm Syndrome, Sherlock. There is no way, with someone harboring those kinds of feelings for you, living under the same roof, that you wouldn’t pick up on it, be damaged by it. And that’s assuming he didn’t try anything. Not to be too harsh, but, you forgot a sister even existed. Who’s to say he didn’t do something, and encouraged you to forget that, too?”

“I not only know him well, I can see him now. How he acts around me. How he feels about this. And he has not only done nothing inappropriate, he has steadfastly avoided me from a certain point in my life onward. Believe me, I was affected. I felt his sudden absence rather keenly.”

“That kind of behaviour has no—”

“What behavior, John!”

“Then a… a…. You are making excuses for him! He doesn’t deserve that!”

“He deserves far more than that. He was very careful.”

“Because he didn’t want to be found out! You owe him nothing!”

“Because he didn’t want to burden me with something he never asked to feel in the first place and knew was the wrong way to react to me and I owe him _everything!_ We are both adults, and he still refused to compromise on his moral code when I—” Sherlock turns sharply to face John, but his voice is devoid of all its anger when he speaks. “You only slept with me to keep me away from him.”

“Of course not.”

“You do realise every time you have said ‘of course not’, it has been a lie.” Sherlock is fully dressed now, and heads for his coat. John throws a robe around himself and follows.

“Maybe that did have something to do with it, then. You get to go around high enough to not know all your motivations, but here you come at me asking if I intended to keep you away from _your brother_ for Christsake. Yeah, I bet that was part of it. Because it didn’t seem like anything you _really wanted to do,_ so why the hell were you _doing_ it, and if it was just some misguided way of… hell, I don't even know what you would have been trying to accomplish, it’s a bit beyond me. But I _have_ been thinking about it all and what I really think is I—”

“Oh, I forgot to mention… I don’t care what you really think.”

And then Sherlock is out the door.

He isn’t going to manage to conjure up a 3 am taxi, so he heads across the street and grabs the first Underground car he sees. He’ll either switch to the right connection or get off at the next stop. Anything to keep moving.


	7. Chapter 7

The precautionary scans show that Mycroft’s brain is not bleeding. He does, however, have a concussion. His fall has been attributed to a combination of dehydration and hypoglycaemia. He’s being held for observation and given fluids. He sits in bed on an IV drip, eyes closed. He knows his habits this past week have not been healthy. He doesn’t know how else things can be. He cannot eat or sleep. He needs his cigarettes and whisky. More than anything, he needs to go back to work. He only hopes that this will not get back to Lady Smallwood. That she won’t push for him to further delay his return.

Anthea raps on the door of Mycroft’s private room. She waits a few seconds, then lets herself in. “Mr Holmes?”

He nods without opening his eyes.

“I’ve taken the liberty of informing your brother. He should be here shortly.”

Mycroft bites his tongue to keep from calling her a meddling idiot. She does not know the full details of what happened at Sherrinford. No doubt she thought she was being helpful. He sits up, opens his eyes. “Call him back and tell him I’m fine. There’s no reason for him to trouble himself. Not at this hour.”

“He’s already texted that he’s en route.”

Bloody buggering fuck.

Mycroft sighs. There’s nothing for it. At least Sherlock’s unlikely to attempt to seduce him again while he’s literally in hospital.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock whirls in in a flurry of black Belstaff. He strides up to Mycroft’s bed, snatches his chart from the foot of it, reads it.

Mycroft can’t bring himself to complain about the invasion of privacy.

Sherlock drops the chart to his side, but refuses to return it to its holder, and walks to the head of Mycroft’s bed to examine the bruise. “It is your habit to be on your treadmill at 3am?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Sherlock looks at him again, his expression softens, and he gives a tight nod. He pulls up a plastic chair far too close to the bed, then sets it back slightly. “Apparently you couldn’t eat as well.”

“We all have our maladaptive coping strategies.”

Sherlock sits quietly for a moment, and looks at the bed, the room. “I’m sorry. I know. How can—is there anything you need?”

“I need to go back to work.”

“I can talk to them. They might--”

Mycroft barks a laugh.

“No. You’re right. They won’t listen to me at all.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Sherlock. Please stop trying to fix things.”

“How can I stop trying to fix things? How can I do that when I have made everything so utterly _broken_ , Mycroft?” His brother tears his fingers through his hair. “I… I did what I thought was best and I need to continue to mend things as best I can. I cannot sit idly by and watch you destroy yourself. That is out of the question.”

Looking at Sherlock’s anxious face is physically painful. “I am sorry. I know that you did what you thought was right. What I said before that you… when I said that Eurus made you… calling it ‘rape’ was unfair. You had no choice--or rather, you had no good choice. You are not responsible for my mental state. I alone can fix that.”

“It was not unfair. It was accurate. And… responsibility has very little to do with how we should proceed. Certainly focussing on assigning blame has not helped us so far.” He bites his lip. “Or, am I wrong again? You cannot fix this alone. If you could, you would not be in this bed right now. I have tried to convince you that I care about you. Still. Always. I don’t know what to do.” He scrubs at his forehead, brushing an errant curl out of place. “There is something. I know there is something. There has to be.”

Mycroft licks his lips. “I’m afraid there is nothing you can do directly. Though it’s said that time heals all wounds. Perhaps in time, when things are not so raw. The… impulses which brought me here will fade.”

“Your _impulses_ did not bring you here.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant the urge to… self-harm. Not…. But those impulses brought us here, too. If Eurus hadn’t seen….”

“What she saw, to the degree that she saw it, was theoretical. It had no basis in action, and you took careful pains to make it irrelevant. If I felt… harmed… by anything, it was your conspicuous absence in my later years.”

He swallows. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I also have only ever tried to do what I thought was best. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I’m not saying that to… I’m not faulting you for that. I’m trying to say--that I missed you. And, now, with this,” Sherlock waves the chart still in his hand, “I’m worried I will lose you. You can’t keep this routine and not suffer irreparable damage. Neither of us are lucky enough to tempt fate. You can’t let this happen again. Can I check in on you? Would it help?”

While he’s touched by Sherlock wanting to look after him, he’s discomfited by the thought of Sherlock dropping by his home unannounced. “I’m so used to our roles being reversed. To having to check your addiction. I never wanted to be a burden to you. To make you worry about me. I’m sorry. I will try to…. This won’t happen again.” He knows he has to keep his promise to Sherlock. He’s still unsure how to actually go about it.

“I know I resented your meddling. But, you made me write those damned notes. Every time. And I knew you would know what I did, and where I went. And. Maybe I needed it. A bit.” He smiles. “But I was no burden to you. I was your responsibility. I think, perhaps, it is time you were my responsibility.” Sherlock’s smile fades and he drops his gaze. “If you can, if it is not too difficult to have me around… that is.”

Mycroft looks up at Sherlock.

“I appreciate the sentiment. But you are correct that I need… space. It hurts a great deal to see you still. That is not your fault. But it is the truth.”

“I didn’t think I’d be… that. To you. Even when I decided to….”

Sherlock looks lost. Mycroft tries to imagine how he might feel if their roles had been reversed. He can’t fathom the misery he would feel if forced to rape his brother. He’s been too focused on Sherlock’s choice, Mycroft over John. He hasn’t considered how Sherlock must feel about the act itself.

“I know. I know you never meant to hurt me. And I forgive you.”

Sherlock frowns. “I will do my best to believe you.”

“And I you. I know you’ve said repeatedly that you don’t… that I don’t repulse you. That you don’t hate me. I also find it difficult to believe. I spent so many years living in fear of you finding out and cutting me out of your life, and I can’t quite believe that you… won’t.” It still seems too good to be true, ethereal. Like it will slip through his hands.

“I suppose that makes sense; were I in your situation I might feel the same. I believe Eurus always intended to make me choose between family and friends. Between you and John. I could never have anticipated this type of choice, but… Well, truthfully, I expected to have had to choose which one of you to—” The sentence ends abruptly as Sherlock takes a breath. “I am grateful, in a way, that I was interesting enough to her for.... That we are all alive.”

“When you first announced your choice, I thought… that it would be better. To die.”

Sherlock’s face crumples.

“I know now that it would hurt you to… lose me. But I confess there was a certain appeal. It seemed so easy. And the way forward seems so hard.”

Sherlock swallows. “That you would have thought it better to die…. I am sorry I was so blind. I didn’t asses things properly. I knew it would be horrific, I was not deluded in that. But I thought I could alleviate the worst aspects of it if I could convince you I was not… disgusted. If I could be…” he purses his lips, “for lack of a better word… affectionate? It was not what you needed, from me.”

“Your affection frightened me. I didn’t know how… still don’t know how… to process it. If you had been cold, mechanical, I could have borne it. But you were kind. And I….” There is a part of him that doesn’t believe he deserved such gentle handling from Sherlock, not now that Sherlock knows. And yet another part of him thinks he never deserved for Sherlock to choose him, wonders how he failed so profoundly as a big brother that Sherlock would hurt him like this. Everything is a muddled mess.

“It was an unforgivable miscalculation on my part.”

“I’ve already forgiven it.”

Sherlock turns away for a moment, takes another deep breath, then continues. “I know. And I said I’d try to believe you. But I want to try to clarify things, maybe help.” He pushes his chair a bit further backward. “I knew you would want to escape from the reality of the situation. I expected you to do that. But I thought you would find it easier to erase Eurus, and John, and find some degree of… a comforting aspect in the familiarity of.… I thought you’d escape into a fantasy, Mycroft. I thought you could have focused on the things you might have wanted and discarded the rest. I thought it would have helped, not, made it worse. And my attempt at… remedying the situation, afterward. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I should have known it wouldn’t have been acceptable to you.”

“You acted on completely understandable assumptions. Perhaps if I weren’t so… warped… it might have worked. But what you don’t understand, Sherlock, is that my fantasies of you have never been….” Kneeling at Sherlock’s feet, sucking his cock as his brother humiliates him. “I take no pleasure in them. When I--you are always cruel. It’s the only way I could imagine you might be if you knew… what I am.”

Sherlock steeples his hands. “So you coped with the intrusive aspect of it by, making it more… unpleasant?”

“I never wanted to think about you that way. I tried to… deter myself.”

“Giving you permission hardly seems helpful.”

Mycroft is aghast. He still believes a healthy Sherlock should not want this, that Sherlock’s comfort with this only shows he’s damaged. And yet it is touching, that Sherlock would absolve him. Would sanction--

“That was meant to be a joke.” He pushes his chair closer again. “It makes sense. I have an understanding of fantasy as its own entity. It does what it wants, and it isn’t necessarily connected to real life.”

“Exactly. I hope you understand that whatever ideas I entertained in my private thoughts, I never—”

“Of course not.”

Horrors hang unspoken between them.

“I’m glad you don’t believe the worst of me, at least.”

“Your fantasies were beyond your control, but in the things that were under it you were beyond reproach, You won’t believe me if I say it is admirable, so let’s settle for I do not find it despicable.”

“Thank you. I feel that it is more than I deserve. Certainly more than I ever hoped for.”

Sherlock does not answer. He sits quietly, hands in his lap. After a moment he looks up.

“Please don’t die, Mycroft.” Sherlock rises, replacing the chart at the foot of the bed, and looks at him. “Your loss would break my heart.”

Heat burns the back of Mycroft’s throat. Tears prickle in his eyes. “I solemnly swear to live forever.”

“Good. Glad that’s settled.” He taps the foot of the bed gently. Mycroft half-expects him to touch his leg, wants him to. His hand twitches against the bedsheets, inches towards Sherlock’s.

There’s a knock at the door. Mycroft turns to look just as John comes in.

No. He wants to be alone with Sherlock. To bask in their new… understanding.

John joins Sherlock, places a hand at the small of his back. They’ve slept together. John is protecting him. He sees Mycroft as a threat to Sherlock.

The world drops out from under him. After everything he’s endured, everything Sherlock inflicted upon him in order to spare John being forced to have sex with him… they’ve had sex. He wants to sink into the bed, to pull the sheets over his head.

Sherlock shifts to the side, away from John. An uncomfortable glance at him, and then at Mycroft.

He knows that Mycroft knows.

“We should be going. I want to discuss some matters with the physician on duty, see the imaging. I will be back in the morning. Well… later in the morning.” Sherlock moves toward Mycroft again, his back to John, and quietly states, “We all have our maladaptive coping strategies.”

John turns toward Mycroft. “Do you mind if I….” He gestures toward the chart.

Sherlock has already seen everything, and chided him for it. John might as well see it, too. “Go ahead.”

John nods and reviews it, stopping occasionally to glance at Mycroft’s bruising. He turns toward Sherlock with raised brows. Sherlock nods. “I’ve studied it as well,” Sherlock says. “We’ve discussed the results.”

“Sorry I was a bit late. I was preoccupied,” says John. “But it looks like you are being well cared for.”

“You can go back home, John. You’re right. You aren’t needed here. I will be back in a few hours, when you are at your clinic.”

Mycroft is quietly pleased that Sherlock is defending him. But he sits silently, watching Sherlock and John’s domestic unfold.

“I’d like to speak with Mycroft before we head back.”

Sherlock eyes John, then Mycroft, and makes his way to his bedside chair.

“Umm. Privately. If you would.”

Sherlock spins around. “I hardly think a private conversation is necessary.” The apprehension in his eyes borders on panic.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft interjects gently. “It’s fine.” He’s made peace with his brother. John can say what he will.

Sherlock looks at Mycroft once more. “I’ll... wait outside then.”

John watches Sherlock turn and leave, clenches and unclenches his left hand, perhaps entirely subconsciously. He looks toward the closed door and sighs. “I suppose I deserve that.”

“He’s clearly afraid to leave us alone together. I imagine you’ve had some choice things to say about me.”

“I have.” John looks directly at Mycroft. “I have had some very… choice words. And that’s why I’m here now. Not… not to throw more of them at you. I want to apologise.”

Mycroft raises both eyebrows.

“I appreciate your letting me do this, without Sherlock here, because this really is about us. I have been picturing… no, not picturing, I have been trying to imagine what all of this would be like for you and I keep failing. I have realised I can’t. I can’t put myself in your place. But I know I’ve been getting it wrong. Sherlock and I discussed some things… and he pointed out that you have worked very hard at not... following through on whatever it was you were thinking about.”

“I love my brother. I would never hurt him. Whatever else you may think of me, don’t think that.”

“A lot of people who do terrible things claim to love the people they do it to, Mycroft. That you believe you love your brother has very little to do with it. And I never meant to imply that you didn’t love him. But I came here to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry I thought the worst of you. I’m sorry I didn’t believe that you would—that you could—find your way around it. But you did. And, for that, you don’t deserve my contempt or my scorn. And I will work on my judgment. But you do deserve my thanks.”

“What for? I hardly deserve commendation for not taking advantage of Sherlock.”

“You’re right. You don’t. You don’t. But I misjudged you.”

“And I you. I assumed you came here to condemn me.”

“An hour ago I was doing just that. I had some time to rethink a few things. And one of them was whether I was stuck in what I assumed things would be like instead of what they… how they played out in reality.”

“You assumed I couldn’t resist Sherlock. Because you couldn’t.”

“So he…. Uh. Yeah, I suppose that is part of it. But, that wasn’t exactly the part I was thinking about at the time. I was thinking about the ways we define ourselves, and how much control we have over the ways we choose to express what we feel. You knew you were….”

“A deviant?” Mycroft offers.

“You knew what you wanted wasn’t appropriate and you held yourself to a high standard of conduct and, well… I have been wondering about what I consider myself to be, and what it means. For me, and for Sherlock. We choose what we do. Or don’t do.”

“My brother is not an experiment, John. He’s not there for you to work out your sexuality. Or for you to pass the time with while you wait for the right woman. He’s in love with you. You shouldn’t take that lightly.”

“I don’t take it lightly. Not at all. I also love Sherlock, Mycroft. And I don’t want to hurt him. I already did.”

“Quite severely. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. And don’t think I’ve forgiven you, just because you’ve forgiven me.”

“It’s not some quid-pro-quo, forgiveness. I forgive you, you forgive me. It’s not a negotiated exchange. I haven’t earned mine yet. And, as it turned out, you never actually needed it. I have work to do. And, I’m still weighing out how to navigate all of this. I’m not particularly good at forging my own path when it comes to relationships, but that is what I want to do. I want to, I want Sherlock and I to create something new together. I don’t know how yet. But I know it’s what I want. It’s so very far from an experiment. And, I know there’s no one else I’d want to wait for. I’ve found him. I love him. I need to figure out how that fits. I’m… doing the work of that.”

Mycroft doesn’t know what to make of John’s admission. He knows John has the potential to hurt Sherlock deeply. He also knows John is what Sherlock wants. And Mycroft will do anything in his power to help Sherlock obtain happiness. “Be sure that he knows. Right now, he believes you’ll leave him. He’s taking all he thinks he can get from you, thinking he wants more than you can offer. And it’s hurting him.”

“I was in the middle of—well, it doesn’t matter. Things got in the way. But you are right. It needs to happen. He needs to know how I feel.”

“If you truly want to pursue a relationship with my brother, if you are looking to ‘forge your own path’ as you put it, know that Sherlock has been forging his own path since the day he was born. If that’s what you want, follow him. Let him guide you and show you what he needs.”

“Yes. Of course. He always has, hasn’t he? I didn’t expect our conversation to take this turn.” John glances toward the closed door. “Right now, he’s angry. And he has every right to be. I think we both made some mistakes. In handling this latest… thing… I mean. But, that’s part of it, I guess. Part of figuring out what we need from each other.”

“Sherlock needs someone constant. Don’t pursue him unless you plan on staying at his side forever.”

“That is what I intend to… will… do. The rest, they are just readjustments I need to make as we move forward. I’m not seeking your permission, Mycroft. The issue is if he will have me or not. But I will be there, by his side, in whatever way he wants me. There is no other place I could possibly be.”

“I know you’re not seeking my blessing, and I cannot in good conscience offer it. Nevertheless, you are what Sherlock wants, and I want his happiness.”

“Maybe I’m what he wants. Or maybe I’m…. Well, I’ll see. What that means.” John rocks back on his heels. “I suspect they will release you tomorrow morning. 24 hours being more or less standard and no one will want to be on call at 3 am. I might be able to pull a few strings, maybe get you back home a bit closer to 6 instead of noon. But, we all know there is a bit more to address than dehydration and low blood sugar.”

Mycroft smiles tightly. “Sherlock and I have discussed this.”

“Yes, but you and I haven’t. What precautions do you intend to take, Mycroft?”

“Lady Smallwood has insisted on a psychological evaluation before I am cleared to return to work. Once I am, I will resume my old routine, which will go a long way towards helping me eat and sleep at regular intervals.”

“It might. But you clearing a psych eval is child’s play. I will think on this. Work some accountability into your routine, where food is concerned. Sherlock is bound to have greater insight than I will. You wanted me in, Mycroft. I’m all in. You’ve got me forever too, you know. We’re on the same page, then?”

“I’ve promised Sherlock not to let things get this bad again. I know I’ve frightened him, and that was never my intent.”

“I’d like to see your recovery be for you, but I’ll accept it being for him. And we will intervene if we have to. Keep it steady to keep us out of your business, if nothing else.”

“Sherlock is no doubt a nervous wreck. Perhaps you should go fetch him.” He says the last bit a little louder, to give Sherlock an opportunity to move away from the door. He knows Sherlock has heard everything he and John have said. He’s spoken with that in mind, and it’s fine. “Let him know we’ve… made peace.”

“Right.” John heads toward the door, hesitates a moment—perhaps he also expects Sherlock is listening in on the other side—and opens it. Sherlock is still leaning against the outer frame.

Mycroft smiles at him, in a way he hopes is kind.

Sherlock returns the smile. John joins in, albeit with some reluctance. “I really did want to speak to your brother in private. And… to say some of that to you directly, you know. For the first time.”

“Wasn’t going to happen.”

John shrugs. “You heard all of it?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t intend to ask you yet. If you wanted me. Not until I had some sort of plan in place. As you… heard… I have some things to work on before I can make that offer. But, it’s where I want to go. And this hardly seems like the place to do it. But I….”

Mycroft is unsure what to make of this exchange. He’s always known that John Watson could be the making of his brother, or make him worse than ever. For a long time, it seemed that John was a force for good in Sherlock’s life, until Sherlock died and John never forgave him. Since then he has been a force of destruction and chaos, driving Sherlock to new lows of addiction and self-destruction. Now… he doesn’t know what John will become now that he’s come to this new decision. He always hopes for the best and fears the worst for Sherlock, and this time is no different.

“No,” John continues, “this is not how this should go. Definitely not.”

Sherlock’s smile is mischievous. “I’ll meet you back at Baker Street, John. There are a few things my brother and I still need to attend to.”

John nods and turns to Mycroft once more. “I’ve worked for many things in my life, Mycroft. I wouldn’t expect you to think too much of me right now. Thank you for listening.” John turns, straightens his bearing, and leaves the brothers to continue their discussion.

“I wouldn’t expect your blessing either,” says Sherlock. “You have always looked out for my best interests. Even when I haven’t.”

Mycroft smooths his bedsheets. “I do not know that he will be good for you. To you. I know that you want him. And I want you to be happy.”

“I know. And, in a way, it is… helpful… to know you are there for me. Not for us.”

“My loyalty is to you first and foremost. Always.”

“I understand. And, I need to be trusted to take that next step myself. Even if it ends up being a terrible decision, I need to make it. But it is… easier… to make it knowing you are there.”

“I’m glad. And I wish the best for you. But John… this is a case where ‘trust but verify’ applies, I think. Be cautious with your heart, little brother.”

“It is a risk, isn’t it? Giving your heart to someone. Hardly one I ever expected to take. But I’d like to think I can give away some of my heart, and still keep my head. The more difficult path than keeping my heart untouched, I know. But I hope I will find it, ultimately, more rewarding. I promise to share my concerns. I think I owe you that. And myself that as well.”

“I am grateful for that. I know that in the past I’ve… abused my surveillance capabilities. It was only because I worried for you and there was much you wouldn’t share with me. I would like it if there could be more openness between us.”

“You agree to those terms as well?”

Mycroft sighs, caught out. “I know it’s only fair. But I confess the idea of trying to share my struggles makes me uncomfortable. I tell myself it is because I don’t wish to burden you. But I know also it is that I never wanted you to see my weaknesses.”

“That is your humanity, Mycroft. We are, neither of us machines. As much as we would like to pretend we are when convenient. There are infinite varieties of self-harm. And pretending we are immune to them is hardly conducive to healing. So far, my weaknesses have been more difficult to hide.”

“I hid mine from you for so long I’m not sure I know how to do anything else. But I will try. To let you in.”

“That is all I ask of you.”

“And I feel I owe you. More than I can ever repay. I never imagined… this. That one day you’d know, and you’d… forgive me. I will not say it was worth it. What Eurus did to us. But there is perhaps one small good that has come of all of this.”

“Let’s not lose that small good, then. If we have gained a greater honesty.” Sherlock moves closer to the edge of the bed, hovering by his side.

There’s tension in the space between them. Mycroft wants to close it, to pull Sherlock close to him the way he once did, when Sherlock was small, before everything became confused and twisted and wrong. He raises a hand and touches the cuff of Sherlock’s coat.

Sherlock looks at him for a moment. He glances at Mycroft’s hand, then at Mycroft himself. “I…” He stops, leans toward him, then, slowly, moves his hand to the top of Mycroft’s shoulder. He watches his face. Mycroft knows he’s scanning for hesitation, resistance. He’s being careful--too careful--to avoid any unwanted contact.

Mycroft swallows. He _wants_. There is nothing erotic about it, but he craves Sherlock’s touch. Is starved for it. He slides his arm up along Sherlock’s, reaching for him.

It is enough. Sherlock reaches his other arm around him in an embrace. He sighs.

Mycroft wraps his own arms around Sherlock, holding him tight. He squeezes hard, hoping Sherlock will hold him as fiercely, will make this real.

Sherlock’s breath hitches, and he drops his head onto Mycroft’s shoulder. He pulls Mycroft closer, his arms wrapping around his back so they are nearly reaching his sides. It is all-encompassing, strong, and he shows no indication of letting him go any time soon.

Mycroft doesn’t want him to. If he could, he would hold on to Sherlock forever. This is what he’s always wanted and was sure he could never have.

“I love you, My. I always have. And I always will.”

Mycroft chokes back a sob. Tears sting his eyes. He swallows. “I’ve loved you since before you were born, Sherlock. And I’ll love you until the day I die.”

“I thought you swore to live forever.”

“So I did,” Mycroft whispers. “So I did.”


	8. Chapter 8

The main room in the cell now has a mattress placed upon the stone floor, and nothing else. Towards the rear of the open space there is a toilet and a shower, which are built into the back wall in a manner which allows for no pipes to be exposed. Any repairs will take place within a separate room located on the other side of the wall. Mycroft was not entirely sure how, but he was well aware of the possibility of her creating an emergency which would require entrance, and it was his intention to design a space where, even with deliberate sabotage, there would be no reason for any other human to enter. 

Two guards had been overheard discussing the cruelty of living life in that degree of isolation. Mycroft had them both dismissed. 

Cameras are positioned outside and on the lower levels, but Eurus’s wing is not monitored; it would always be possible to tamper with video equipment. By design, if someone else were ever to enter, monitoring devices would be placed directly on their own person—and there are a great many of them. Any interaction would then be observed from a control room, now located in an entirely different wing of the building. There is normally no one manning this station. Today, there is.

Mycroft checks his laptop as Sherlock adjusts the last bit of equipment attached to his suit jacket. This one is clearly visible. The rest are not. It is likely a useless precaution.

“Do you think it wise to leave the cell itself unmonitored?” Sherlock asks.

“No one watching means no one for her to manipulate.”

“I see. New challenges...and a brand new prison to break free from.”

Mycroft sighs. “You do realise you do not have to cater to her whims to ensure her cooperation. All we would require is a tranquiliser gun and a sharpshooter—both of which are at our disposal. She would simply awaken in her… new accomodations.”

“I have no issue meeting with her privately. In fact, I would prefer to see her again.”

Mycroft presses his lips into a thin line. “I wish I found that at all surprising.”

“She doesn’t wish to harm me. She only wants to see the effects of her handiwork.” Sherlock straightens his suit jacket again. “I will be perfectly safe because this time we have the same objective.”

Sherlock walks down the corridor and pushes a small, black button on a device fixed to the wall beside the metal door. A randomly-generated alphanumeric code appears. He punches in the sequence and the door swings open for precisely three seconds, then it slams shut behind him, the clang echoing in the nearly empty room. 

Sherlock steps forward. There is no longer barrier tape upon the floor. “You asked to see me.”

“I wanted to congratulate you, Sherlock. For the time being, anyway. I suspected you favouring your partner’s desire over your own was more strategic plan than selflessness. The path you would choose to get what you wanted had many variables, though the outcome always was certain.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that you actually know far less of my character than you think you do?”

“No. Manipulation is in your nature. Win a lover, lose a brother.” Her voice briefly took on an artificial lilt. “Poor Mycroft. But it is rather convenient, isn’t it? To have someone who will permit you to do any number of wrongs and still love you. Why not exploit that? Of course I wasn’t given that luxury.”

“You burned down our home, Eurus, You killed people. You... killed people who wouldn’t play your games.”

Eurus advances on Sherlock. He fingers the alarm in his pocket which would send in an armed security team. Eurus reaches out as if to touch him, but stops just short of doing so. “If only you had wanted to play with me, Sherlock. If only you had given me a chance instead of rejecting me. Instead of making Uncle Rudy have to send me away. Instead of making Mycroft feel the need to follow the directive, keeping me imprisoned for my entire life.” Eurus steps backward, until there is more than an arm’s length between them. “But, you finally did play, didn’t you? And as in all games, there needs to be a winner and a loser. That Mycroft would lose is hardly surprising. He enjoys losing, if it means helping you. So tell me—which method did you choose to claim your prize? Shall I tell you what I think?”

Sherlock tries to look indifferent, but there is something undeniably fascinating about Eurus. As tempting, and as safe, as it might be to simply walk away, he wants to hear her out.

“You were exactly the same at five, at fifteen, as you are now—emotionally incapable. You were emotionally incapable of getting John Watson any other way. So I provided you with a method.”

Sherlock tries not to react, but knows it’s pointless. Eurus can read every flicker of emotion.

“Oh, but don’t feel badly, it isn’t just you who is incapable. Mycroft is as well. Emotionally incapable of expressing his desires. But you have been afforded more than adequate compensation; you can scheme far better than you can communicate. I think you impressed your John with your decision to spare him physical and emotional pain. But that wouldn’t be enough for him to...what do they call it? Cross over? So you then managed to make yourself pitiful, temporarily winning the affections of the man you desired. Not too difficult, as you are rather pitiful in any case, but he doesn’t see you in that way, which is why you are attracted to him, he feeds your ego. And, that having been accomplished, you made him take care of you. A role he is well-accustomed to. One so ingrained in his sense of self that it would override his orientation. You could still get what you wanted. 

“He will resent you for it, eventually. Just like he learned to resent his sister, his mother, his country—each in turn only left him feeling more underappreciated and alone. And dear brother Mycroft, well, his own shame will keep him from you. You each have created your own downfall. Each of you will be left with nothing.”

Sherlock pauses, deciding whether he should even formulate a response. Eurus has had her moment to gloat. But Sherlock has fought far too long against himself—weighing on his own if the very things she was accusing him of had merit—to simply let Eurus proclaim them as undisputed fact. True, manipulation was in his nature, and he had believed John’s… offering… too fast, too casual, for him not to have been deliberately set upon that path somehow. But, as John had later confessed, it was one that he had been considering for some time. 

Sherlock asked him if he had redefined himself as bisexual—issues of identity weighed far more heavily on John than on Sherlock—and John shook his head. It was different. His sense of attraction had not changed, but how he felt about their relationship had. In John’s words, once he had stepped outside of his preconceived ideas about sexuality and relationships (and sexuality within relationships) the decision had become much easier. Sherlock had had next to no influence on the process. 

So for Sherlock, winning a lover had actually been child’s play. Not losing a brother… well… that had been just shy of impossible. But he had done it. Had somehow managed to keep both relationships. He could gloat, too.

“You are wrong.”

Eurus smiled. “I don’t think so. Much of it is yet to come. And the rest is you telling yourself a different story. One far more pleasant. People _like_ it when their stories have happy endings. Whether or not those happy endings truly exist is of no real consequence.”

“It is a solid enough theory, but you are missing some elements which are of fundamental importance. Namely, Mycroft does not act merely out of a sense of obligation or of duty. He is acting out of love. I love him—”

Eurus tilts her head to the side, puzzled.

“Yes, still. And he loves me. We have put our cards on the table, so to speak, and have reconciled. As for John and I, that will perhaps be even more difficult for you to understand. We remain in a relationship, as we always have been. We have, both of us, an understanding that this relationship is far broader in scope than a friendship, yet requires no standard definition, save our own. And how we chose to express our love is entirely up to us. We are… physically involved... in a manner that suits us both. There is nothing even remotely resembling resentment between us. In both relationships, that with my lover and that with my brother, we have recognised that there is a love present which defies convention. Impossible for someone like you, who only understands love in the abstract, to be… emotionally capable... of relating to. But you can relate to this aspect, Eurus: I have all that I wanted. As do John and Mycroft. You lost. And we have won.”

There is a moment when she doubts, but then Eurus smiles once more. “Give it time, Sherlock. You will see.”

Sherlock returns the smile. It is every bit as dangerous and determined. “I intend to.” He takes a few steps backward, his eyes still on Eurus, then turns toward the door and punches in the code he had used previously to gain entrance. The door opens once more. “I will give it all the time in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to our wonderful betas foxyvoxy, Marta, and out_there.


End file.
